


Can We Clarify?

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [15]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Connor as a Baby, DaddyBruce, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Little Squabbles, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Marriage, Mild Language, PapaClark, Slice of Life, Soft Boys, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Conversations between Clark and Bruce over their years of relationship. Sometimes things need to be clarified.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about because I was dawdling on finishing my other work--work I really need to start on tomorrow! But until then, enjoy a Blark. 
> 
> There will be a second installment to this one with different discussions in Bruce's POV.

**2 months**

 

               

               “So, like, are we dating now?”

                “Hmmm?”

                “Dating? Are we uh—dating now? Like exclusively? Because I wouldn’t want to assume—”

                “Why not?” Bruce’s eyes were open now, sterling silver flickering with warmth, “We’ve been dating long enough to assume a lot of things.”

                “We have?” Clark’s voice went up a little too far at the end of the question as Bruce’s fingers started to count his ribs. He worked backward, from the last to the first, the rough pads of his fingers eliciting a torrent of goosebumps. They’d been lounging in bed for hours, mostly just enjoying each other’s company, tracing secrets into the skin and trading lazy promising kisses. Clark’s internal temperature had slowly been climbing and with Bruce pressed so snuggly into his side, not even the sheets separating them, he could feel that the same could be said for Bruce.

                Bruce propped his chin up on one hand, “Clark, we danced around progressing into a physical relationship for years. I think it’s safe to say, we are now dating. In fact, I assumed, that we were already in agreement about this,” he shrugged a shoulder, looking absurdly relaxed about the topic, all things considered, but his eyes were anything but light. They were as dark and serious as the twitch in one brow and the tightening on his jaw. He wanted Clark to think that it didn’t matter. That none of it did.

                But Clark had learned to read Bruce’s micro expressions a very long time ago.

                “Well, it’s good we’re talking about it then.”

                “Because you weren’t sure?”

                “No, because I wasn’t sure if you were sure. But since we are _both_ sure, we can—ya know, relax a little more. Feel more secure in our relationship,” Clark paused, eyes flickering over the soft curve of muscle bulging on Bruce’s biceps, “And we are exclusive, right?”

                Bruce lifted a brow, “Do I look like the type to share with others? Really?”

                “Well,” Clark cleared his throat, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, “I’ve seen you with a lot of people over the years. I tried not to pry too much.”

                “Maybe you should have. It might have gotten us here, in this bed, a hell of a lot faster.”

                Clark snorted, “Like you’d have allowed that. It was hard enough convincing you _this_ was a good idea.”

                Bruce’s smile was unrepentant and wicked, “You underestimate just how much power over me you have then. Because I’d agree to just about anything when you put your mind to it.”

                “Is that so?”

                Clark’s gaze darted to Bruce’s mouth, to the slight part and the warm breath that was ghosting over his cheeks. The kiss was just as promising as all the others they’d shared. But there was a trace of desperation in the way Bruce edged nearer, fisted Clark’s hair and _groaned_ into his mouth when Clark’s hands trailed beneath the sheets to grab on for dear life.

                “So,” Clark whispered around kisses, as Bruce arched and then climbed on top to straddle him, “Can I start introducing you as my boyfriend? Or is that too—too,” thoughts became obsolete and absolutely fruitless for a solid ten seconds while Bruce dipped to suck bruises into his neck and collarbones.

                “You were saying?” Bruce murmured, sounding breathless as he worked his way down to Clark’s hipbone and mercilessly nibbled with enough teeth to be sinful.

                “B-boyfriend?” Clark’s vision whited out for a second and it took all his focus to pay attention to Bruce’s answer.

                “Clark, I’ve been telling everyone you’re mine for the last month. You haven’t?”

                “I—Jesus, Bruce, I can’t—think.”

                Bruce’s chuckle was like dark chocolate. Rich and wicked. “That’s the idea, Kent.”

 

 

 

**8 Months**

                “So, you’re saying—you’d never be into marriage, ever?”

                Bruce folded his newspaper in half then pulled off the readers that Clark usually found oh so attractive, then sighed, “I don’t believe in the institution. But if that’s something you need. If it’s something you want—”

                “You can’t decide to marry someone just for the other person. That’s not how it works. That’s not—it’s not a good idea.”

                And not in the least romantic. Not when Clark had always imagined himself proposing to the person he loved because he was wildly committed, as committed as his partner. Not just because the other person thought it necessary. He didn’t want an ‘okay’ as an answer, he wanted an enthusiastic ‘fuck yes’. Was that too much to ask?

                Apparently, it was.

                Apparently, wanting such trivial things like both parties to enjoy a matrimonial connection was a little too much to ask. And that—that stung a bit.

                “Clark—”

                “I get it.”

                “No, I don’t think you do. Not when you’re trying so hard to cover up _that_ look.”

                “What look?” Clark snapped, sounding a little too peeved to really hold any sort of cover.

                Bruce nodded slowly, “Alright, we’ll talk about it later when you aren’t mad at me.”

                “I’m not mad at you, Bruce. I’m hurt.”

                Bruce blinked at him, “Same result. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to say anything we might regret. If you want to get married, that’s fine. We’ll do it. And I’ll happily wear a ring and say all the vows. It just isn’t something I ever considered. Not seriously anyway. That’s nothing personal—it’s just not—not been on my agenda of things I needed to do.”

                “It’s not something you check off a list, Bruce. Marriage is something couples partake in when both people feel strongly enough to make a lifetime commitment to each other.”

                “Haven’t I already done that?” Bruce’s jaw was clenched, his eyes hard on the table, body rigid. Clark could see maybe they were traipsing into territory that was tender. Maybe he should stop and take Bruce’s warning of not wanting to fight seriously. But he was feeling a little—sore. And maybe didn’t always want to be the emotionally responsible one out of the two of them. Maybe he wanted to be a bit ridiculous and let himself go for a moment.

                “Half-whispered promises during sex are not a lifetime commitment, Bruce.”

                Bruce flinched, sloshing coffee from his mug onto the white table cloth and Clark watched as the dark liquid spread in spidering fingers through the linen. Alfred came into the dining room, re-filled the coffee, offered to bring in another helping of French Toast, then quietly left when he received stilted answers in reply.

                All the while, Clark watched the splotch of coffee on that linen and felt his gut squirm with worry. Regret was a bitter pill in the back of his throat, and he wished he could take it back. He wished he’d left it alone till he wasn’t feeling so raw or emotional.

                He wished he could be like Bruce and box feelings up into their precise locations only to be removed when deemed appropriate.

                “I shouldn’t have said that.”

                “You meant it,” Bruce’s voice was hard. Angry. Clark recognized it as defense, but couldn’t help his own hackles from bristling.

                “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this right now.”

                “Why not?” Bruce all but hissed, putting down his coffee, smoothing a thumb over the offending stain with the muscles in his jaw fluttering like mad, “You pushed and you pushed and you pushed. Why not reap the rewards? Why not delve right in? Do you want to know what I really think? I think marriage is a farce. I’ve seen enough of them end in disaster. Almost every goddamn one of them. And I have no interest in tying myself legally to anyone. Even you. And it’s not to protect myself, no, that isn’t what I’m concerned about. It’s to protect you. Because years down the road, when you decide you’ve had enough of whatever it is you can’t stand about me, you’ll be able to leave without fanfare. And you’ll realize,” Bruce swallowed, the muscles of his throat working over his Adam’s apple, his eyes hazing in a light sheen of moisture, “You’ll realize how right I was. And you’ll be thankful to me for not just letting us get married. For not running headlong into something that you don't really want anyway. Not when I’m getting older and older and you’re not aging. You’ll be thankful I saved you.”

                For many long-suffering minutes, Clark couldn’t make words come out of his mouth. He was too angry. Too furious with Bruce for ever thinking such preposterously self-sacrificing thoughts in the first place. He shook from the enormity of his feelings on the matter and there was a tiny, itty-bitty, part of himself that whispered he should leave. He really ought to calm first.

                The moment he opened his mouth and did respond, the chances of leaving the dining room without spilling blood, ended.

                “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Bruce. And I’ve heard a lot of bullshit in my career.”

                Bruce jerked like he’d been slapped, then stared wide-eyed at Clark. But Clark, the fool that he was, wasn’t finished either. Bruce had his piece to say now it was Clark’s turn. And he’d be heard, or so help them both.

                “I’ll thank you? You’re protecting me? From what? The chains of matrimony? Are you—are you that deluded?”

                Bruce’s eyes flickered down to the table, his hands fisting. But he said nothing. Nothing at all.

                “I want to marry you because I love you. Because it’s what people do when they love each other. They declare that love for a few close friends and they put a fucking ring on it. It’s not so they can be chained to one another and have a harder time leaving when their relationship eventually ends. Dear God, I knew you were cynical, but—Bruce—do you honestly think that in all the years I’ve known you, that for one moment, anything about you has frightened me off? I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m still sitting across this table furious with you because I want to marry you and you still think that I might not want you later on? Even though I already know everything? For Christ-sake, I know what underwear you wear, what toothpaste prefer, and how you like to curl up like a shrimp to sleep. I’ve seen you cry till you had snot running out of your nose. I know you can be selfish and work too much. I know you are prone to depression and anxiety and have a penchant for melancholy that no amount of my cheerful attitude is going to fix. Hell, I even know all of your kinks and you like some pretty kinky fucking shit. But I’m still here! I still want you. And you—” Clark’s throat suddenly felt terribly dry and his hands were shaking and he felt sick to his stomach, “And you think I’d leave you still? That it matters to me that you’re going to age? You think I haven’t thought about all that and dreaded the day I might lose you?”

                Clark finally looked back at Bruce and found the man sitting slumped in his chair, his head angled, eyes on the carpeting now, cheeks flushed with color. He looked a little like—a little like Clark had spent the last ten minutes screaming at him. Which wasn’t exactly the case, but it also wasn’t exactly _not_ the case either.

                “Bruce, shit,” Clark had to breathe out slowly, shove his hair off his forehead to collect his words again, “I’m sorry. I never meant for this to become a fight and you were right. I should have left it alone. I—”

                “You’re right,” Bruce spoke so softly it was a whisper, “Even after everything, even with everything you know about me, I’m a coward. I’m afraid.”

                “I never said you were a coward.”

                “Didn’t have to. I know—”

                “No, I never said that. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Or gone off like that, but I never said you were a coward for not wanting to marry me. I just, I don’t know. You don’t have to marry me. Or even want it. But I never want your reasons for not doing something to be because you think I don’t want you. Or rather, won’t want you as long as I say I will. Because I don’t say things I don’t mean. When I say I love or I want you, it’s for life. It’s—a permanent condition.”

                Bruce’s eyes flitted up to his face, held a second then fell, “I never thought I’d live long enough to marry.”

                “You—”

                “I thought that if I hadn’t died by Gotham’s hands, then I would have—died by other means.”

                “Bruce,” Clark dropped to a knee by Bruce’s side, “We don’t have to get married. I’m not saying we have to.”

                “But you want to.”

                Clark bit his lip, “I’m not gonna lie and say it wasn’t always something in the back of my head, because it was. But I don’t _need_ to have that, if you don’t want it.”

                “It isn’t that I don’t want it.”

                Clark lifted a brow, “So if I dropped on a knee and proposed at the breakfast table, you’d—”

                Bruce’s face paled.

                “Just checking.”

                Bruce scowled, “Not funny.”

                “It was. A little. But I understand, Bruce. And if you need more time, then I’m more than okay with that. But maybe let’s not put the idea of marriage fully out of commission until you’ve given yourself time to consider my loving you for eternity, yeah?”

                Bruce sighed, reaching roughly to grab onto Clark’s hand, “I can do that.”

                “Yes,” Clark smiled, stretching to kiss Bruce’s mouth, then lingering close to press their foreheads together, “yes, you can.”

 

 

 

**4 Years**

                “You want more kids?”

                “What?”

                “What is this?”

                Bruce blinked up from a crossword puzzle he was working on, face impassive as it found Clark’s and the object to which he was referring then shrugged, “It’s just a pamphlet.”

                “You left it on the bathroom counter.”

                “I must have forgotten it there.”

                “You forget nothing. You left it there on purpose. Why?”

                Bruce dropped the crossword, tugged off his trusty readers then sighed, “Maybe because I was trying to feel you out without having to have a real conversation about this yet.”

                Clark shook his head, taking a seat on the mattress to stare pointedly at his husband. They’d been married for close to three years and term ‘husband’ still never got old. It created an insane amount of giddiness that was a little like flying first thing in the morning over a rushing waterfall. Clark could get high off the sensation.

                “Why not just talk to me? Why not just ask me what my thoughts were?”

                “Because,” Bruce shrugged a shoulder, “Because I’ve got a hoard of adopted children and I was afraid you might balk at the idea of having another someone we take care of and I didn’t want—” he stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, “I didn’t want you to immediately turn me down.”

                “You thought I’d turn you down?”

                “Well, I mean,” Bruce shifted on the mattress, “Wouldn’t you?”

                “That depends,” Clark held the pamphlet up to look at the picture of a happy couple holding a toddler in their arms, “That depends on why you want another kid?”

                “Why?” Bruce blinked, obviously confused.

                “Yup, I need to hear why you think it’s a good idea. We aren’t getting any younger. A baby would be a lot of work.”

                “I never said—”

                “I saw the bit underlined about possible surrogacy. I know you’re considering it.”

                “I—” Bruce flushed pink clear to his hairline then tucked both legs into his chest, “I love all my kids. And I wouldn’t change a thing about them or how they came into my life, but they aren’t—” his eyes darted up to Clark, “they aren’t really _our_ kids.”

                They weren’t. Damian was already fourteen by the time they’d started dating and he was the youngest. The kids had always been Bruce’s. It was something that Clark understood, respected, and never tried to get in the way of.

                “You want a kid with me.”

                Bruce’s eyes were hesitant when they found Clark’s, worry marking them abalone. “It’s something I’ve been considering.”

                Clark waited for a beat, maybe longer than he should have considering how much he’d already made Bruce sweat, then put the pamphlet down on the nightstand.

                “I like the idea, Bruce. I really honestly do.”

                “You do?”

                “Yes.”

                “And the—the surrogacy?”

                “We’d have to use your DNA, because mine is too dangerous for sampling or using with a surrogate, but—”

                “Are you serious?”

                Clark smiled, crawling further onto the bed, pushing Bruce’s crossword and glasses onto the floor. Bruce didn’t even glance at them. He was laser beam focused on Clark’s face.

                “I wouldn’t lie about this sort of thing, Bruce. I’m deadly serious. And to be honest, the idea of having a kid with you, of sharing that with you, makes me incredibly excited.”

                “Yeah?” Bruce’s breath rushed out, relief and joy mingling in his eyes, in the flex of his muscles as they moved to wrap Clark in a fierce hug.

                “It also makes me incredibly horny.”

                Bruce chuckled, “Oh yeah?”

                “Oh yeah. I feel like we should start collecting samples and making sure everything works right. Just for posterity’s sake.”

                Bruce’s chuckle turned darker with need, “God, I love you.”

                No sweeter words.

 

 

**8 Years**

 

                “Clark.”

                Clark was lying with his ear pressed to Bruce’s belly, listening to all the little noises that made Bruce, Bruce. His heartbeat, the soft whoosh of blood in the vessels, his stomach and intestines working on breaking down dinner. He’d once explained how comforting those noises were to Bruce. Bruce had laughed, but then the following night, lifted his shirt and let Clark cuddle in.

                They’d completed the oddly ritualistic cuddling for years without fail. Tonight, was no different.

                 “Clark.”               

                “What?” Clark’s voice sounded thick with sleep and he was dangerously close to slipping away. They’d had a long day and he’d spent the evening playing with Connor until the child was so exhausted, he’d passed out into his spaghetti.

                “Would you still want me if I was fat?”

                Clark blinked into the hazy light of their bedroom, frowning against Bruce’s stomach, “Where did that come from?”

                “We’ve never talked about it. And I think we should.”

                “Why would you think your weight should matter to me?”

                “I’ve always been the epitome of fitness. It stands to reason that you’d expect that from me for the foreseeable future of marriage. And I thought we should discuss the possibility—that, that might not be the case forever.”

                “Alright,” Clark sat up, already missing the heat of Bruce’s skin where he’d left an ear imprint beside the man’s belly button. “Tell me what this is about.”

                Bruce blinked owlishly up at Clark, his vision not nearly as clear in the dark of their bedroom then shrugged, “It’s what I already said. We should just—discuss it.”

                “Why?”

                “There isn’t—”

                “Bruce,” Clark was frowning now, worry making him tense, “You never just bring things up like that, unless there is a direct reason. What’s making you think we need to talk about this?”

                “I’ve—I’ve gained weight.”

                Clark blinked, felt the laughter stretch and threaten to leak out then forced it down roughly. “You don’t look like you have.”

                “I have. Cutting back on my hours at WE and on patrol so I can have more time at home with Connor means that I’m not in the gym as often, or working out as much, or—focusing on my health like I was. And I’m not up to my usual par.”

                Clark glanced down at the flat stomach he’d just been laying on and struggled to see what Bruce saw. Sure, there was less definition in the musculature. But it was minute. The man was still incredibly strong. Still thin. But Bruce had always bordered on too thin to Clark.

                “Bruce, you look as beautiful as the day I met you. Hell, you look better.”

                Bruce snorted, “I’m getting love handles.”

                Now Clark did laugh. Because that was ridiculous. “You have got to be kidding me, Bruce. Babe, oh baby, no. You aren’t. And even if you were, you would still be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You’d still be the daddy I want to come home to every night.”

                Bruce looked thoughtful, his eyes flickering over Clark, brows drawn low. “It really doesn’t bother you.”

                “Why would it? You look amazing. Now, or five hundred pounds from now. I don’t care about that. And I never will.”

                Bruce nodded stiffly, rolling onto a side, pillowing an arm under his head in a position that denoted he was ready for sleep. Clark smirked as he fell in behind him, stuffing a hand under Bruce’s shirt to lazily trace lines into his chest and belly.

                “You’re sexy as hell, Bruce.”

                Bruce sighed, leaned into Clark hard enough that it felt like a backward hug then, “Well, I’m glad you could clarify that for me. Sometimes I—sometimes I forget.”

                Clark smiled, nosed into Bruce’s neck and inhaled deeply, “We all do.”

                “You can’t get fat.”

                “We don’t know that.”

                “We do,” Bruce snorted, “And it’s completely unfair.”

                “Another argument, for another night perhaps.”

                Bruce shifted, rolling till his face was neck-level with Clark. “What’s wrong with now?”

                “Now?” Clark laughed, “Now, I’ve got other plans.”

               

               

               


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 in Bruce's POV. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for all your lovely comments and the unceasing love. It really does mean the world to me. <3 <3 <3

 

**2 Weeks**

 

                “Is this—okay?”

                Bruce was too busy trying to get out of his strangling clothes to hear the hesitant question at first. Everything was hot, too hot and he _needed_ Clark so badly, so very badly there wasn’t much else rushing through his brain but caveman like thoughts. His ability to process and think had gone to the wayside somewhere between Clark kissing him into the couch and then dragging him upstairs to his bedroom.

                Bruce hadn’t said much. Hadn’t really needed to. His body had done all the talking. And it was practically screaming for what it wanted.

                “Bruce, wait,” a hand, warm and smooth stopped him from unbuttoning his jeans, “Is this okay? Really?”

                Bruce blinked, tried sluggishly to get his mind to get on point again, to sluggishly go back to being rational but everything was on _fire_ and all he could feel was the clawing _need_ pulsing in his fingertips and the backs of his eyes and the hollow of his belly. If Clark didn’t touch him again, he might cry.

                “What?”

                “I need to make sure this is okay.”

                Bruce swallowed thickly, blinked again, “You mean sex?”

                “Yeah,” Clark nodded, his hair falling over his forehead, “Yes. I need to make sure. We’ve—we didn’t talk about this first and it feels a little fast.”

                “Fast?”

                _Don’t stop. Please don’t stop._

Bruce’s fingers curled at his stomach, gripping on the waistband of his jeans till the knuckles whitened. Clark’s eyes followed the movement, the corners tightening as they missed nothing. They never did. And suddenly—suddenly Bruce too naked. He’d only managed to get his shirt off. But suddenly, he felt incredibly stupid for having gotten so lost in the physicality of the moment that he’d not realized Clark was still dressed, and Clark was telling him it was too fast, and he’d just practically thrown himself at him, almost _demanded_ that Clark have sex with him.

                Nothing could have doused the flames under Bruce’s skin faster. Nothing.

                He slid out from under the bracket of Clark’s shoulders along the door, quickly skirting behind him to find his shirt. But they hadn’t turned the lights on, and everything was bathed in shadows. He fumbled for too long, long enough that Clark was back at his side, gripping his shoulder, sending flares of quiet electricity down his torso and legs.

                Torture. It was torture to want Clark like this.

                “I didn’t want to stop, Bruce. That isn’t what I was trying to do.”

                Bruce couldn’t look up. He wouldn’t be able to make out the familiar lines and edges of Clark’s face, even if he did. It really was too dark. But even so, he kept his face pointed at the ground. A part of him just a little bit ashamed at his wanton display of need.

                “You’ve lost me, Clark,” Bruce mumbled, fingers finally connecting with the cotton of his t-shirt as he dipped to scoop it up.

                Clark stopped him from putting it back on, his grip soft but unrelenting. “No. Don’t do that.”

                “Do what?” Bruce finally blinked up, “I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”

                “No, Bruce—damn it, stop. I want you and I want this. God, I want it. But I just wanted to make sure that we were both okay with it. We’ve only been dating a couple of weeks and I would understand if you wanted to take things more slowly. If you weren’t comfortable adding sex into the mix.”

                Words fizzled on his tongue, stopped up short and failed.

                Clark shifted nearer, fabric rustling, “I didn’t want you to regret it. That’s all. I didn’t want us to get caught up in the heat of the moment and not—think about it carefully.”

                “I have thought about carefully,” Bruce’s voice shook, an undercurrent of hurt and anger making the words clipped, “For years, Clark. I don’t need you protecting my virtue. I know what I want.”

                “Okay,” Clark blew out a breath, “Look, please don’t get mad. I just wanted to be sure we were on the same page.”

                “I thought that was pretty clear down on the sofa when your hands were stuffed down my jeans.”

                If Clark was blushing, Bruce couldn’t tell. But there was a slightly vindictive part of Bruce that hoped so. There were times that Bruce seriously resented Clark’s need to analyze feelings and sort them out into their proper place. Sure, it was healthy, and Bruce’s therapist would likely agree with Clark’s careful approach to sex, but it wasn’t always pleasant.

                “Can we go back to where we were?” Clark sounded hopeful.

                “I don’t know.”

                Clark reached out again, tugged on Bruce’s bare shoulders, till Bruce stumbled into him. Clark had a few of inches on Bruce and standing barefoot in the dark, he seemed enormous. In all the right ways. Broader, thicker, stronger. Clark was all that and more.

                Bruce’s pulse skittered, heat easily threading back into his system till he felt that impossible need to be nearer resurfacing. It was almost too much how badly he ached to have Clark with him. Beside him. Skin to skin.

                “You feel like velvet,” Clark murmured, mouth on Bruce’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe, fingertips questing down the long muscles in Bruce’s spine.

                Bruce went a little weak at the knees and almost, almost humiliated himself by collapsing. As if sensing this, Clark tightened his grip, nose dragging along a cheekbone, into Bruce’s hair, then those lips dipped and found Bruce again and hungrily started right back where they were before.

                Bruce’s heart _sang_ at the contact.

                “I want it, Clark,” Bruce found the words spilling out of himself, tumbling in a breathless whispery chant, with desperation clinging to every word. He didn’t care. He wanted Clark. Clark already knew this. It didn’t matter that it made him feel weak and needy. That it made Bruce want to beg. Clark would never use that against him.

                Clark was a safe person. Clark was—Clark was the man he loved.

                It really was that simple.

                It really could be that simple.

                “I want it too, Bruce. I want it bad.”

                And it was oh so good to be on the same page.

 

 

 

**1 1/2 Years**

 

                “How would we do it?”

                Bruce’s brow wrinkled, his eyes skipping up over the console, “Now, is not the time to discuss this. I’m working.”

                “I know. And normally, I wouldn’t bother you. Because I’ve got work too, but we really need to hammer this down and lately it seems like you are purposefully avoiding me, so you don’t have to.”

                “Clark,” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, dropping into his swivel desk chair. He had cases pulled open, pending DNA analysis comparisons blipping away monotonously on his desktop and a grotesque pile of bloodied gauze he’d forgotten to trash by his water bottle sitting near his elbow. His workspace was a mess. His thoughts, just a touch too frazzled and still focused on his work.

                He’d only gotten back from patrol an hour previous. It was late, but not late enough he couldn’t finish up a little more work. He wanted that DNA analysis back. He suspected mutagen involvement, but only confirmed bloodwork could make it—

                “Bruce, you’re slipping away from me again. Focus.”

                “I’m working,” Bruce snapped, eyes jerking back up to Clark with more venom then they ought to, “And this isn’t a good time to talk. You know I don’t like talking when I’m elbow-deep in a case.”

                Clark’s brow lifted, arms folding across his impressively thick chest. He was wearing his Superman uniform and, in the cave, lighting it looked more ominous and less welcoming. Bruce preferred it that way and under normal circumstances, might find it alluring enough to skip out on finishing work. There was nothing more satisfying than peeling Clark out of the Superman blue, but he was _busy._

                And he had no interest in talking about what Clark wanted to talk about.

                Not now.

                _Ever?_

                “Vanilla or chocolate?”

                “I don’t care.”

                “Small and intimate or more public?”

                “Not. Now.”

                “Rings?”

                “Clark,” Bruce snapped, pushing to a stand. His body groaned at the change of position, abused and exhausted. “I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it. I said we could get married. I agreed to it, because I want to. But I never said I was going to plan anything. It’s not my thing. Never will be. Stop. Pushing.”

                “Fine,” Clark nodded sharply, turning on a heel, “I’m going to bed.”

                Bruce’s anger deflated a little, “Clark, wait—”    

                “You don’t care, that’s fine. You don’t want any part in planning our wedding, that’s fine too. But don’t act like you haven’t been dragging this out for weeks because you aren’t really sure you want to marry me at all.”

                “What?”

                Clark’s chin lifted, the flash of cobalt in his gaze piercing, “You heard what I said.”

                Bruce waited an hour before going upstairs. It was cowardly. He knew that. But he also didn’t want to fight or to make things worse than they already were.

                He stripped out of the suit, changed into sweats from the cave’s locker room, then trudged up the stairs with lead in his feet. It took him a disproportionate amount of time to shower and get ready for bed. All the while, he went over how to smooth things over. He cataloged what he was feeling. He tried to piece together why he _had_ been dragging his feet as Clark said.

                Because it wasn’t what Clark thought. Bruce might have been against the idea of marriage a while back, but he was fully on board now. He wanted Clark his. Legally, emotionally, spiritually. Any way he could have him.

                That wasn’t the issue.

                It was—something else. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on why he’d been immeasurably stubborn and obstinate about being involved in any of the planning.

                When he crawled into bed, Bruce fully expected Clark to stay on his side of the bed. To be angry enough to want space.

                But Clark, well he was Clark, and he didn’t want space. He wanted Bruce on top of him. It was a position they sometimes slipped into after sex, or when Bruce needed something extra. Lying on top of Clark, chest to chest, was a lot like lying on a very firm, very warm mattress with supportive arms. It was as relaxing as it sounded.

                The moment Clark folded him into his arms and squeezed, Bruce felt the muscles in his back and neck release and the pressure beneath his breastbone went right along with it. Suddenly, he really didn’t want to be fighting with Clark. He really wanted to be able to curl into the heat and just sleep. He wanted everything between them to be right again.

                “I really do want to marry you,” Bruce’s voice was muffled in Clark’s chest, but Bruce figured Clark could hear it just fine.

                “I know.”

                “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. It doesn’t make sense. I’m—I’m sorry.”

                “When you pictured us married,” Clark’s heartbeat was a steady dull rhythm beneath Bruce’s ear and cheek. A lullaby that Bruce equated with the utmost serenity. “How did you picture that happening?”

                “I don’t—”

                “Did you think we’d do it big and splashy?”

                “No.”

                “Small then. Maybe very discreet.”

                “I just—” Bruce closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, “When I pictured us married, I just pictured it happening. Just, we wake up one day and it’s done. No fanfare, not even a blip. I know that’s not romantic and it’s not—it’s not ideal. I just—”

                “Bruce,” a hand carded through his hair and Bruce resisted the urge to push into the contact like a cat. “I understand. And I think I have a solution.”

                “Yeah?” Bruce’s voice sounded sluggish. He was just so tired.

                “Let’s do Justice of the Peace. We’ll get a witness and tie the knot without anyone even knowing. We can announce it by a card in the mail. Maybe do a little dinner with the kids at home later.”

                Bruce blinked open tired eyes and found they were suddenly _burning_ like he might fucking cry. “You’d do that?”

                “Bruce, baby, I’d do anything for you. I don’t care about how we get married. I just care that we get married.”

                “You’re serious?”

                “Deadly,” the hand in Bruce’s hair tightened, forcing his head back so Clark’s lips could find him, kiss him hard enough to almost hurt. “I want you. Nothing else matters.”

                “I—I want—” Bruce had to swallow, had to blink back those tears with a vengeance, “I want you too. Always have. I always will.”

                “Then you won’t balk when I take you to the courthouse tomorrow and slap a ring on your finger.”

                Bruce stared down at Clark, saw the slight curve of a mouth and shook his head, surprisingly at ease with the idea, more at peace than he’d been in weeks. “I wouldn’t balk at all.”

                “Good. Then it’s settled.”

                They lay silent for long minutes, thoughts drifting, Clark’s fingers twisting pieces of Bruce’s hair till Bruce was so close to sleep, everything felt like it was underwater. But pleasantly so.

                “Are we really getting married tomorrow?”

                Clark’s laugh was a quiet rumble beneath his ear, “Yes. Yes, we are.”

 

 

**5 Years**

                “Wait, wait just a damn minute.”

                “What? Bruce, I’m going to be late, this needs to be fast.”

                “I—you can’t just—you can’t just leave without talking to me first.”

                Clark’s mouth flattened, his eyes darting to the little fuzzy head peaking out from the crook of Bruce’s elbow, “Keep your voice down.”

                “He’s fine. We aren’t. We need to talk.”

                “I’m going to be late.”

                Bruce growled, “Too bad. We need to talk about this, and you don’t get to rush off to work, _again,_ leaving me with all the responsibilities of Connor. You assume I’m just going to take care of him.”

                Clark opened his mouth, closed it, then tipped his head at Bruce like he was some sort of a specimen that needed examining, “I thought we already talked about this months ago. _Before_ Connor even got here. In fact, I’m sure we did. You said it made more sense for you to spend the lion-share of time at home with Connor because your job is far more flexible. You can work from home. I can’t always do that. I thought we were in agreement about this.”

                “We are,” Bruce gritted his teeth to fight a wave of irrational rage from flooding his systems. He was more than a little overtired, he was exhausted to the point he wasn’t seeing straight. Coffee wasn’t helping, nothing was. Connor was cluster-feeding and had been up most of the last four nights. Clark had gotten up _once_ to help with the feedings. And then he flew off to work in Metropolis only to come home and act like his two hours of Papa time in the evenings was enough to make up for not helping at all.

                They’d brought Connor home from the hospital only a month previous. The first week had been like walking on cloud nine. Bruce had been ecstatic. Then the reality of parenting a tiny little person came to fruition and the exhaustion and the spit up and the diaper blow-outs and then _everything_ was suddenly more than he could handle. At least not alone.

                Bruce was—Bruce was on some sort of strangely prickly edge he’d not been on before. Ever.

                And though he sensed his feelings were a little more heightened by sleep-deprivation, he wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable. He was tired of Clark rushing off for this or that when he wanted to bring something up. This for example. Saving the world could wait one fucking moment.

                He needed Clark right now. No one else did.

                “I don’t see the problem, Bruce,” Clark looked at his wrist-watch and Bruce actually saw red.

                “Because I need you to help me more and you’re not!”

                Clark blinked, looked down at the still sleeping baby and then frowned, “I thought everything was fine.”

                “It’s not fine!” Bruce had officially snapped. “You said you’d help with night feedings but you’ve only gotten up once in the last three days and Connor has been cluster-feeding. He’s not slept hardly at all. Then you rush off to work early and leave us both all day. Two hours in the evening does not make up for it! It just doesn’t. And I thought I was fine. I thought I could do this but I—” Bruce felt his throat snap closed, “I can’t. Alright? It’s not working for me.”

                Connor made a snuffling noise, rolled closer to Bruce’s chest then started to mouth at the fabric. He’d be awake any minute and want a bottle. Bruce clenched his jaw to fight the wave of stupidly overwhelming frailty and turned to leave the room.

                He heard Clark follow him. He heard the man shift awkwardly as Bruce prepared a bottle one-handed while Connor fully woke up and started to squirm and cry in agitation. A handful of minutes later, Bruce was standing at the counter, feeding Connor while glaring at Clark who still hadn’t fucking moved from the doorway.

                At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

                “I’m sorry, Bruce.”

                Bruce forced his face to soften when Connor reached up and grabbed for his chin. He dipped, let the pudgy fingers explore his lips and five o’clock shadow. Connor’s eyes were so blue they could be Clark’s. It never ceased to make Bruce’s heart squeeze painfully with earnest love for the tiny being in his arms.

                He wouldn’t change being Connor’s dad for the world. He loved him, more than anything. But he was in desperate need of help and he was tired of feeling like the only parent.

                 Connor’s little happy eating noises filled the kitchen and softened the harsh lines of winter gray eking through the windows.

                “I didn’t see how badly you were struggling, Bruce. And I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve seen you tear apart an alien five times your size with your bare hands and survive to tell stories about it. I guess I just—I forget.”

                “What?” Bruce looked up from Connor, “That I’m human? That I have needs? Like sleep?”

                “Well,” Clark shifted, neck going splotchy with color, “Yeah. I forget you have needs sometimes. I get caught up in my own work and I thought since we’d already decided you’d be staying home that I was doing my part. I wasn’t paying attention and I’ve been—God, I’ve been so selfish. And I’m _so_ sorry. Can you forgive me?”

                Bruce sagged into the countertop, “Yes, I can forgive you.”          

                “I’m going to do better. I’m going to help out more. In fact, I’m taking the day off so you can catch up on sleep. You won’t need to help with Connor at all.”

                “What?” Bruce blinked, “You said you have work.”

                “I always have work. But I also have sick days. And I can call in. Let me help you. Let me take the day off so you can take the day off.”

                The idea of sleeping—of doing something uninterrupted like showering or eating or hell, even taking a shit on the toilet, had Bruce’s throat wanting to close again and his eyes burning. “Okay.”

                “Yeah?” Clark beamed, smile doing all sorts of things to Bruce’s stomach.

                “Yeah.”

                “Alright then,” Clark strode near, cupping Connor’s head with a hand nearly as big as the infant’s body, “hand him over then. You go back to bed.”

                “I can burp him—”

                “No,” Clark shook his head, “No I got it. I know what to do. I may not have been much of a help these past weeks, but I’ve been watching, and Connor and I understand each other,” Clark grinned, hoisting the squirmy baby into his arms, “don’t we little man?”

                Bruce hesitated in the entryway, listening to Clark talk with Connor, to the rhythmic thump of a hand working burps out of a baby. His eyelids were so heavy he almost curled onto the stairs and fell asleep right then and there. Only the promise of a bed, all to himself, with no alarm or wailing baby to wake him, made his feet start moving again.

               

 

**11 Years**

 

                “A vacation?”

                “Yeah,” Clark paused mid-sentence, the clacking of computer keys suddenly stopping and returning the study to warm quiet. The fire was a gentle glow, tangerine fingers reaching out to tangle in their hair and clothes, firmly reminding them it was winter, and it was bloody cold outside. “Don’t you want to get away?”

                Bruce shifted, rearranging his legs on Clark’s. They were opposite each other on the leather sofa, each with their laptops open for work. It was after ten and he should be getting suited up for patrol, but Bruce wasn’t feeling particularly motived to get moving. He would much rather stay in with Clark beside the fire, pleasantly working on typing up his budget proposal to the board than face the blustering cold.

                Connor had been in bed since eight and hadn’t made a peep. The manor was quiet, especially as Alfred had already gone off to bed for the evening. Bruce had assumed they’d work another hour, then maybe exchange their playing footsy for something a bit more hands-on as a precursor to some bedroom activities. They’d not had sex in a week. Far longer than they usually went and Bruce was feeling a bit—itchy.

                “Don’t you think we’re a bit too busy for that?”

                “Too busy for a vacation? That’s the point of a vacation. To get away and take a break, _because_ you’re too busy.”

                “What about Connor? We’ve never left him alone before.”

                Clark pursed his lips, “He loves Ma and Pa and Alfred is certainly capable of watching him. Connor loves Alfred.”

                “We’ve never made vacationing a priority before now.”

                “Maybe we should have,” Clark’s brows lifted stubbornly, “Maybe we always should have had it as a priority.”

                Bruce didn’t feel that he had that much to help his case of staying. Besides, alone time with Clark was something he very rarely shot down. If ever. Even though the idea of leaving for any length of time made him feel a little sick to his stomach.

                “How long?”

                “A week. Maybe two.”

                “Two?” Bruce tried not to gape, but he was certain that was not accomplished by Clark’s censoring look.

                “This isn’t about leaving Connor, is it?”

                “I—well, I don’t—”

                “It’s about leaving Gotham alone for too long.”

                Bruce shrank a little, “I’ve never left Gotham for more than a few days. And whenever I do leave, there is almost always some sort of catastrophe waiting for me on my return. It’s almost always not worth the effort of leaving in the first place.”

                “When’s the last time we went anywhere just for us? And don’t say something League related, because that does not count.”

                Bruce thought about it, sinking deeper into the cushions so he could barely see Clark’s face above the lid of his laptop. “I suppose—before Connor was born.”

                “I think that sounds about right. Connor is turning six this year, Bruce. It’s been six years since we’ve gone on a vacation. That’s way too long.”

                “Well, when you put it like that—”

                “It sounds awful. Hideous.”

                Bruce snorted, “It sounds pathetic, yes. But maybe we could make it only a week. For my sake.”

                “Fine,” Clark smirked, clicking again on his laptop, “How about a Sandal’s resort? No kids. Alcohol and surf. We could have sex and be as loud as we want.”

                “That does sound nice.”

                “Doesn’t it?” Clark’s eyes were softer behind his glasses, gentle as they flickered up and held onto Bruce. “We deserve a break sometimes, Bruce.”

                Bruce shrugged, “I suppose you’re right.”

                “I know I’m right.”

                They went back to work for another hour. And like Bruce had hoped, Clark grew impatient with his work, tossed off his glasses, closed his laptop, then crawled over to invade Bruce’s space. Bruce easily accepted the change of pace and closed his own laptop to stack it on the floor with Clark’s. They kissed lazily for a long time, and Clark tasted like something rare and exotic from the wine they’d had with supper. Delicious. Bruce’s hands found their way under Clark’s shirt, tracing perfect muscles and flawless skin. Clark pressed him deeper into the cushions until he was almost getting swallowed by them.

                “Let’s go upstairs.”

                “Why?” Clark murmured, lifting his head from his task of licking Bruce’s pulse into a frenzy, “Everyone is in bed. It’s warm in here.”

                “What? We should have sex in front of the fire? Like some hallmark flick?”

                Clark’s grin was slow and wicked, “Yup. I intend to take you on the carpet. If only it was a bearskin rug, then it would complete the cinematic picture.”

                Clark did drag Bruce onto the carpet in front of the fire. They were both sticky with sweat from the heat of the flames, even before any real action started. Bruce felt a little drunk from all the languid touches and the kissing that seemed to steal his breath. His mind was so fogged on lust, he barely even registered when Clark got their clothes off and they were indeed doing this right there on the floor.

                It was one of those rare nights of passion, where everything clicked. Not perfect, never perfect. But who would want that in the first place? Perfect would be boring. Bruce liked how the hitches in breath and the flaws in movement made it more exciting and unpredictable. He thrilled all the more at how they fit together, how Clark seemed so easily impassioned by just the touch of Bruce’s hands.

                They made love like they were born to it and Bruce was so drowsy and drugged off of it, he could barely move. Spread out on the carpet, naked and tangled was hardly the way they should be found come morning. But there was a part of Bruce that honestly didn’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time Alfred walked in and saw more than he should.

                “I think—I think I’ve died.”

                Bruce chuckled, nuzzling into Clark’s neck. Clark was a heavy weight on top of him as he’d yet to move, but it wasn’t unpleasant. “That good, huh?”

                “Always.”           

                Bruce smiled, closing his eyes, “You’re really sure about a vacation? You don’t think Connor will be upset we’re leaving him alone for that long?”

                “It’s a week, Bruce. Connor will probably be overjoyed at the prospect of spending that long on the farm. Gotham isn’t going to fall apart without you either.”

                Bruce hummed in reply, arching his back a little, twitching with pleasure as their skin slipped on each other. They sat so long in the quiet, so softly still that Bruce was certain Clark had fallen asleep on him.

                “Could you go again?”   

                “Again?” What an absurd question?

                “Yes,” Clark lifted his head, mouth twitching up at the corner, eyes so dark they could be black, “I’m—I could use more.”

                “You always could.”

                Clark dipped to nip at his chin, “Usually you can too. So?”

                “Clark, it’s not even a question. Yes. But if you try and fuck me again on this carpet, my back is going to kill you in the morning.”

                Clark’s laughter was as pleasant as the fire and twice as warm.


End file.
